Buttons
by Morello
Summary: Rufus and Tseng dealing with geostigma. They prefer to keep things buttoned up. For Licoriceallsorts.


**Birthday fic for Licoriceallsorts. I don't know - it's a bit romantic, but I hope you like it. Happy birthday! **

**Buttons**

Rufus undresses carefully because he is always careful and precise in everything that he does, even when circumstances call for swift action, as they used to – once… In time there exists a day during which he shot at a terrorist wielding his shotgun one-handed, and escaped by helicopter, holding on to the skids with the other hand. He's sure that his arms didn't even ache afterwards.

Each button on this fine white wool jacket has been handmade, and respect for the tailor's labour demands attention so it doesn't matter that his hands move stiffly – that it would be impossible for his fingers to slide the buttons deftly and rapidly through their holes even if he wanted to.

He eases aching arms out of the sleeves. The almost imperceptible silver-grey pinstripe of the fabric is just visible in the moonlight, if he squints with his one good eye. The light in this room is endless motion of splashed brightness and shadow, moonbeams scattered by the tumbling waterfalls outside his window. It's very beautiful; he can still see that. It has a unique beauty – like this suit with its impractically high thread count that means it will barely last a year, despite the fantastic price tag. But then, it's unlikely that it will need to last that long.

Jacket finally off, Rufus finds that he's sweating. He grimaces at the irony – removing the garment has made him warmer than keeping it on. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, his hand trembling slightly against the cool window pane – and he's looking at the view because, really, the waterfalls are so beautiful, even blurred like this; even with perspective flattened by monocular vision.

There was a day when he watched the approach of the bolts of energy that he knew would kill him, and his unclouded eyes only narrowed – fearless. But there are harder things to face – things that conceal their approach, working from within. New stains that he fails to notice at first – watching his death approaching in slow motion this time.

Did Tseng once know a Wutaian haiku about waterfalls and moonlight? He claims to have forgotten most of his childhood in Wutai, but over the years Rufus has gathered a small collection of fragments – mention of a house with a terraced garden where something sinister happened – a phrase muttered in moments of intense frustration that Rufus can quote without knowing its precise meaning – a never repeated reference to a brother. These shards give Rufus' imagination enough material to piece together a shape for Tseng's early life – but he knows that most of it is his own fiction. The reality is that Rufus, with all the traditional, classical education his father's money could buy, is much more likely to know Wutaian haiku than Tseng.

The view is beautiful, but Rufus is ready to continue. The buckles on his waistcoat have loosened and become more flexible over time, but every movement is a struggle between Rufus' will and his disease. Clumsy fingers obey him too slowly, and he wonders whether Tseng, waiting in the shadows with the appearance of eternal patience, ever itches to take over. The others would have acted long before this: Rude without speech or fuss, but brooking no argument; Elena a little flustered but business-like; Reno with his sometimes surprising tact – "Hey, let me get that for ya, Boss…"

Only Tseng waits for as long as it takes.

There are occasional moments of respite when the disease grants Rufus a sudden reversion to almost-normality – but the base trend is inexorable; the whole performance takes a few seconds longer every day.

Waistcoat off, Rufus pauses to fold it neatly and place it over the back of the chair, taking the time to breathe. "I'll need you to retrieve the Jenova remains tomorrow," he says, resting his hand, as if casually, on the chair as dizziness overtakes him for a moment.

"Yes, Sir."

"Take – Take weapons, in case. Exactly as we discussed."

"Everything's ready," Tseng confirms. "We've found enough fuel. There should be no need to land the chopper."

"Good. Let's hope…"

Without finishing the sentence, Rufus begins the most difficult part of his evening routine – unfastening the small mother of pearl shirt buttons. Does this tedious and repetitive ritual frustrate Tseng as much as it does him? If so, Tseng never shows any sign of it.

Rufus' fingers are as uncooperative as a toddler's tonight, and he has a sudden memory of his nanny kneeling to fasten the gilt buttons of a blue coat when he was only three or four. He remembers looking down at Nanny's fingers with their short, clean nails, and his mother's patent court shoes shiny black on the white marble of the hall floor. And then his mother, smiling, unfastening the top two buttons, saying, "Gracious, you'll overheat, child!" before taking his hand and leading him outside into a blaze of flash bulbs, where she knelt, just like Nanny, and re-buttoned his coat for the cameras of the waiting paparazzi. Rufus remembers that he felt confused at the time, but he only smiles at the memory now. If nothing else, his mother taught him the importance of appearing to be in control.

The final button refuses to yield. Rufus pulls at it, unable to get a proper grip, and it flies off, pinging against the window glass, ricocheting onto the floor somewhere. Embarrassed, Rufus removes the shirt as swiftly as he can, his abrupt movements concealing the trembling this exertion has caused in his limbs. Whether or not Tseng has noticed the incident, he makes no mention of it.

"All right," Rufus says. Tseng has everything ready, as always. He removes the old bandages and disposes of them, washes away the black ichor that seeps from the stigmata, applies sterile dressings and new, clean bandages. As he works he talks about other things – the reconstruction in Edge, Reeve's latest plans, the derogatory comments Reno's been making about the beer in a new bar called Johnny's on the outskirts of the growing city.

If, as Tseng moves behind him to fasten the bandage that covers his shoulder, Rufus is ever tempted to close his eyes and lean against Tseng's chest to rest there just for a moment – if Tseng ever longs to let his hands linger on the pale, as-yet unmarked areas of Rufus' back to warm those sore muscles – _if_ such impulses occur they are never acted on. Whatever has happened between them in the past, this appearance of normality is all they have left to give each other now.

x

From a few streets away the sound of children's delighted cries and laughter echoes off high buildings and mixes with the steady wash of the rain. Rufus and his four Turks watch silently as the marks of geostigma vanish from Rufus' skin, where his hand rests on the arm of the wheelchair. His gaze meeting Tseng's, Rufus looks for permission to believe in the permanence of this seeming miracle, and sees the same question in Tseng's eyes.

x

At Healen the lodge is quiet. Reno, Rude and Elena are downstairs, enjoying a few well-earned beers, too exhausted to say much. In his room, Rufus stands by the window, Tseng back by his side. The waterfalls glow liquid gold in the long evening light.

Rufus raises his hand to touch the bandage that covers the bullet wound on Tseng's temple, but Tseng takes his wrist gently and moves Rufus' hand away. The remnants –what happened in that cave and afterwards – those things are in the past now. Perhaps they'll talk about it one day: more likely they never will.

Why his own hands are trembling now Tseng can't say, as he unfastens the buttons of Rufus' jacket one by one – the buckles on his waistcoat – those mother of pearl shirt buttons, the bottom one missing. And under the layers of fabric, under the bandages as Tseng removes them, under swiftly discarded dressings, there is nothing but smooth, unmarked skin and the promise of a future that they had both almost stopped daring to hope for. As Tseng moves behind Rufus to unwrap the last bandage, Rufus sighs and leans back, resting his head against Tseng's shoulder. Tseng lets the bandage fall to the floor, and puts his arms around Rufus, closing his eyes.

At last Rufus half turns in Tseng's arms. Tseng opens his eyes, and looks at Rufus. Now that the pain has gone from his face, the president looks very young. "I can start again!" Rufus exclaims.

"Tomorrow," Tseng says. "You need to sleep, now."

"Will you stay with me?" Rufus asks.

"Always," Tseng replies.

As Tseng follows Rufus to the bedroom, he steps on something hard. Bending to examine the object, he discovers Rufus' missing button. The mother or pearl gleams softly in the low light, but Tseng's eyes return at once to the unblemished skin of Rufus' back. Slipping the button into his jacket pocket, Tseng immediately forgets all about it, as Rufus turns in the doorway of the bedroom, holds out his hand, and smiles.


End file.
